


Bloom Big

by Interrobang



Category: Original Work
Genre: Group Sex, Multi, Nymphs & Dryads, Other, Plants, Public Sex, Sex Pollen, gratuitous flowery (lmao) language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 10:29:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11689776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Interrobang/pseuds/Interrobang
Summary: At first you think it’s just some strange configuration of knots in the bark, old scars and cuts arranged to make something familiar to the human eye. Dark eyes, full lips. A tilt of mystery when the trunk groans and creaks and subtly rearranges itself. You watch, wide-eyed, as a mouth forms, nearly opens.It doesn’t speak to you, and you’re far beyond words. You gasp at the change in the tree and hurry to cover yourself. You try to tug your hand away to find your pants, but the vines, wound all the way up to your shoulder now, are reluctant to let you go. They pull tighter, press their tender bark into your skin. And the face? Its lips tilt up in silent laughter, eyes bright as fireflies. The trunk creaks in protest as the dryad pushes out.





	Bloom Big

**Author's Note:**

> what's up dudes i fucking love plants and monsters!!!! The monster fucker discord group was a huge inspiration for this. This was work on in a livewrite and hasn't had a ton of editing, so apologies for any inconsistencies.

In retrospect, this is not how you expected your weekend to go.

 

You’re far from an outdoorsy person. You like your air conditioning and your electricity and you’re honestly not a huge fan of mosquitos in intimate places. But there’d been talk of some kind of mega bloom this weekend, and the internet had been rife with stories about the last time a flora event like this had happened. They say it’s on par with the supermoon, some kind of mass growth event. Miniscule, really, unless you consider the scale of it in a year’s growth.

 

So you’d packed your bag: a camera, a tent, some water and a few other odds and ends stuffed together haphazardly. It’d been a long time since you’d really taken the time to go outside for any extended period of time.

 

There’s a park not too far from your house; it’s large and secluded, a little out of the way. Rangers patrol, but that’s more to maintain the trail markers than to really keep an eye on campers. 

 

You huff along one of those trails now, boots grating against your heels. You really should have broken them in first, you think. There’ll be blisters for days. You’re set to stay a night or two if necessary, but at this rate, you’ll be too tired out to even finish your walk! After hours of trekking through the woods, stumbling up hills and over roots, you can finally hear something in the distance: not a rustling, not cracking, no-- water.

 

Invigorated by the idea of a break, you hurry along the path. You can hear it ahead-- a small stream maybe, or even a creek. Something full of pebbles and mud and minnows. In your haste you nearly trip over a protruding root, but you catch yourself on a broad oak, your palm scraping over bark with a sting.

 

The trees around this watering hole lean in imposingly, reaching towards the water at least as desperately as you do. The day isn’t particularly hot-- honestly, quite pleasant in the shade-- but you’ve been climbing all day and you’re not used to the strain. When you come upon a rocky bank, you sigh with relief and start tipping your shoes off. 

 

You’re halfway up to your knees in mud and pond water when you hear something behind you. Some kind of rustling, maybe a giggle. You whip around, sure that you would have heard anyone following you this far out. But no-- no one as far as you can see. Just thick undergrowth and branching limbs, vines stretching out from tree to tree to make a thick tangle that almost makes this feel like a private pool.

 

You relax. There’s no need to worry, after all. You came out here to be alone. You love your indoor life, but in the height of summer, something had called to you. Maybe it was the distant calling of cicadas outside your window at night lulling you to sleep, or the soft rumble of a summer storm in the distance. The promise of a mega bloom was just the tipping point to get your out here, but something in you has been longing to be out here, in the depths of the woods, for weeks. 

 

You turn back to the creek. The water is shallow, the pebbles set in a thick bed of mud leading right up to a tangle of tree roots along the raised bank. You splash a little bit, actually having quite a bit of fun. It’s been a long time since you really let yourself loose. 

 

You’re in the middle of terrorizing some tadpoles when you hear it again: a creaking behind you, too close to be a mistake. You freeze, some part of your hindbrain warning you that there might be an animal behind you. 

 

When you gather your courage to look, you laugh. There’s nothing there! Just the same old trees, the same old bushes. They’re dotted with little flower buds and berries though, ripe and soft in the summer sunlight. You smile at them and get back to your splashing. 

 

The rustling and creaking carries on. You start to get used to it, no longer even listening while you play in the river. After glancing around and realizing that you are, in fact, completely alone, you start to contemplate the merits of dropping your pants entirely. You didn’t bring any swimwear with you, but that shouldn’t be a problem, right? Your socks and boots are already strewn at the base of a thick trunk, well out of the way of the water’s path. 

 

You wade out of the water, splashing heavily. By now the rustling has grown in volume. It almost sounds like whispering, the wind pushing the branches into gossip. Voices-- branches-- shift over one another in a cacophony. It’s strange, though: you can’t actually feel the breeze, though you can hear it.

 

Your clothes are nearly as you left them, but something seems...off. They’re angled wrong, maybe a few centimeters out of place. There’s a tangle of vines nearby, seemingly having fallen off the tree above. Maybe they hit your stuff on the way down?

 

Shrugging, you lean against the tree to try and get your pants off. You’re covered in mud and algae now, and it’s no easy feat. In fact, you’re so focused on your complicated task that you nearly jump out of your skin when you feel something brush up against your side. Your shorts are around your ankles, and the jolt sends you stumbling backwards.

 

Saved by a sturdy tree trunk! The bark grates against your back, but at least you didn’t fall on your ass in the mud. That would have been embarrassing. You smile up at the broad canopy, laughing shakily. It shouldn’t matter so much-- there’s no one here to see, after all. 

 

And then-- another brush against your back, another light touch over the back of your thigh. Startled, you glance around you. The various vines and saplings around you are going wild, wriggling and shaking and  _ growing  _ fast enough for you to see. Is this what people were talking about? 

 

You make to turn, to watch more closely, but the vines closest to you-- the ones that have been brushing up against you since you moved over here-- seem to have other ideas. A small green thing winds its way over your offered fingers, twisting over your knuckles gently and making its way up your wrist. You watch in fascination as tiny leaves bud and unfurl on its stem, flourishing in the afternoon light. The vine traces its way up your arm, and too late you realize that it’s following the warmth and path of your veins. 

 

It curls around your elbow, gentle as a whisper. You’re so fascinated that you nearly forget that you’re standing there with your pants around your ankles. 

 

Until the face appears. 

 

At first you think it’s just some strange configuration of knots in the bark, old scars and cuts arranged to make something familiar to the human eye. Dark eyes, full lips. A tilt of mystery when the trunk groans and creaks and subtly rearranges itself. You watch, wide-eyed, as a mouth forms, nearly opens.

 

It doesn’t speak to you. You gasp at the change in the tree and hurry to cover yourself. You try to tug your hand away to find your pants, but the vines, wound all the way up to your shoulder now, are reluctant to let you go. They pull tighter, press their tender bark into your skin. And the face? Its lips tilt up in silent laughter, eyes bright as fireflies and emerging all the time from the body of the tree. The trunk creaks in protest as the face pushes out.

 

And then the being stops as if considering something. The whole tree groans against the soil as the being leans back, seeming satisfied with watching for the moment. You tug your arm again, but it’s held tight. The person in the tree smiles as if amused with your pulling. Then, darting its eyes to the side, it grins toothily, its mouth an arrangement of the tiniest flower buds. 

 

A limb reaches out-- a branch, and arm, it makes no difference-- swooping low from the canopy to curve over the river. It’s laden with heavy fruit, some kind of pitted thing you don’t recognize. The person in the tree gestures, shakes its limb. The fruit sways, fat and ripe. 

 

You shake your head and try to pull your arm away, and the person-- spirit, monster?-- looks confused. The vine on your arm caresses your inner wrist and tugs you gently over to the fruited branch. You stumble, still caught up in the oddity. 

 

“I’m not-- no thank you?” The refusal comes out more as a question, made all the more pitiful by the fact that you have no idea where to direct your words. The face frowns. It looks put out by your refusal. It gestures more fervently, pushing you forward. Flower petals rain down as it slowly bows its branches to bring the fruit closer. 

 

Christ, this is weird. You wish you could at least put your pants back on. You cast a dubious look at the tree’s face. Soft brown cheeks are pushing out of the wood now, deep whorls cast through the roundness of its jaw, its lips tilted upwards encouragingly. 

 

You reach out. The face smiles and pushes out further, til the curve of a neck can be seen, then a broad shoulder. The tree limbs shake, and your hand hovers in the air as you feel another vine creep up your leg. The leafy tip of it caresses your ankle and tickles against your shin. You try to shake it off, squelching in the mud-- it’s tricked you into taking a step towards the fruit!

 

Well, you think, if a magical tree person want to feed you, it wouldn’t be wise to refuse, would it? You’re literally in its clutches.

 

You take the fruit. It breaks off with barely any resistance, the stem disconnecting from the ripe flesh with the barest pull. The fruit sits fat in your hand. It’s something like a peach, soft and fuzzy on the outside, visibly bursting with juice. It looks sweet and is still warm from sunshine. 

 

The tree rustles behind you. The vines curl a little tighter around you, making you walk back towards the trunk. You look at the face-- now a torso-- leaning out of the wood. You look at the fruit in your hand. The body looks at you expectantly, and as you lift the fruit to your lips, you see them pull out of the trunk even further. Shoulders give way to lithe arms, and as the very edges of your teeth sink into the fruit, twiggy fingers emerge from the cracks and crevices of the bark. 

 

Juice bursts over your tongue at the exact moment a flurry of activity nearly knocks you off your feet. Tart but almost cloyingly sweet, you have to hold back a moan of enjoyment at the powerful taste. It’s nothing you’ve ever tried before, nothing you’ve ever seen in stores. 

 

You have to have another. 

 

The tree looks on in satisfaction as you pull away to grab another piece of fruit, then another. Juice runs down your arms in sticky rivulets as the tree covers its mouth with one long-fingered hand, stifling silent laughter. It shakes it boughs as it titters, rustling with glee. More fruit shakes loose, and you chase it as best you can. Your clothes are long forgotten, covered in mud somewhere to the side. The vines at your wrist twist and unfurl, leaves pressing into your skin as it grows. Little green buds are growing at the juncture of its length, now, pink at the edges and growing as you watch. The vines creep over your shoulder as you eat. One tendril sinks next to your ear, around the curve of the shell and just tickling at your temple. Its strokes you tenderly, curls possessively around your juice-sticky cheek. 

 

You’re ravenous. You don’t know where the hunger came from. One minute you were happily wading, the next your stomach has made itself known more quickly than it ever has before. Pits litter the soil around your feet. They mingle with brambles and twigs, cast-off petals and leaf litter. Your feet are caked in mud, your nail beds filled with fruit pulp. When you glance over at the trunk of the tree, you can see a fully-formed torso sticking out of it now, the cut of its waist thick and knobbly. It crosses its muscled arms and watches with a pleased expression on its face as you feast. 

 

Eventually the hunger slows. You finish off one last piece of fruit, dropping the pit by your feet and sighing in satisfaction. You sway where you stand, suddenly drowsy. The vine curling around you has spread to your other shoulder. It tickles at your neck and creeps its way under your collar. 

 

When you stumble towards the trunk of the tree, the tree catches you. Petals kiss at your cheeks as bark-rough hands hold your shoulders. Your fingers dig into the knots and knobs of the trunk, just barely avoiding the body blooming out towards you. Though the person holds you close now, you’re reluctant to grab onto them. Your hands are quickly being covered in dirt and debris, stuck to you with juice and sap. The grime clings as thoroughly as the mud on your feet and the sweat on your back. 

 

The vines pull you closer, as gentle as a butterfly’s wings against your skin. The person in the tree is so...wow. 

 

Wow. 

 

Dazed, you stare up at the face in front of you. For the first time you notice how  _ tall  _ they are, how broad. Androgynous features look back at you, and the look is not unkind. There’s a gentle humor there, a kind smile. A hand reaches up to pull aside a stray green tendril from your cheek, and its palm is smooth as a worn pebble, pleasantly cool against your heated cheek. You turn into it, sighing quietly. Your stomach bulges with your meal, and the wood is blessedly soothing against the flush on your face. 

 

You lean into the creature’s embrace, and for the first time you hear it make a noise. More than the quiet rustling of its leaves, the noise that breathes out of its mouth is the faintest whisper, words just on the edge of a breeze. It whispers things to you you’d never thought of. Standing there in the woods’ embrace, you listen to the tree tell you about the coming bloom, of the sun so powerful and warm, of water so sweet and free. 

 

The tell you about how they’ve longed for this for years. How this is the one time they can emerge from their bed of mulch and stretch, limb by limb, joint by joint, on a lazy riverbed. 

 

How they can join hands with their friends and dance under moonlight, uninhibited by roots deep in the soil. 

 

How they can feed themselves, body and soul, to prepare for the next slew of years until a bloom like this.

 

And then they tell you about their friends. Their friends, who wait just as patiently as they do. They call themselves dryads, of the old Greek tradition. Their ancestors traveled just as humans did, in seeds and pots while human infants were carried in slings. They spread and populated the continent, but they’re still close. They’re men and women and others and they live in the forest--  _ as  _ the forest-- and wait for the hours when the sun and moon grant them freedom. 

 

Your eyes grow heavy as you listen to their leafy whispers. Your limbs too; slowly, the vines trailing down your arm spread and cushion your back as you slide down the trunk of the tree. The dryad lowers with you, cradling you all the while, until you’re sitting together in the soft dirt at its roots. 

 

When it stops talking, there’s a sweet noise on the breeze: a whistle that could almost be mistaken for birdsong flitting through the canopy, followed by muffled laughter. When you lift your heavy head and look up, you see other figures in the distance, emerging from the trunks and bushes and walking on leafy feet to stand around you. 

 

The dryad at your back strokes over your shoulders and neck, petting your nape and squeezing lightly. You hear a chuckle just by your ear, and when you turn to face it, the dryad nuzzles into your neck. It smells sweet, like honeysuckle and sunshine, and you sigh into its embrace. 

 

The other dryads are murmuring now. The afternoon light sinks behind them, casting their shadows long and their petals into a warm glow. The creek still babbles behind them, and the ground is soft under you, padded further by leaf litter. The arm supporting you curls around you and pulls your further into the arching curve of its torso. You sit between its whorl-barked legs and go loose. 

 

More than murmuring, the rest of the group has started to move. They gather the fruit pits you tossed aside, cast off the ground and into petaled palms. Curling green fingers and stony nails alike dig into the pulp-covered pits and carry them forth. The dryads stand expectantly in front of you. You’re too sleepy to think much of it, but the arms around your waist tighten, green fingers pressing into your abdomen.  They’re questing, looking for something. The gentleness makes you shiver and lean back, your legs spread and limbs loose. 

 

There might be some truth to the initial mega bloom theory that drew you out into the woods originally, because the people in front of you are teeming with life. Every line of them, from grass-like hair to twiggy elbows and burred backs, is moving, stirring in the afternoon sun. Some of them have little buds and new leaves sprouting on their skin, and the life shifts and grows as they shuffle forward to form a circle around you and your friend. 

 

It could be ominous, eerie even, but the dryads all look so kind and calm that you can’t help but be so too. The fruit has you full, and though the wood at your back is cool, the beat of sunshine on your face is warm. You sigh and curl your toes in the mud. Your bag is out there somewhere, with your tent and clean clothes. You have no doubt that you’ll be just fine after this, perhaps even dining with friends around your fire tonight. There’s nothing the world that could cause you to worry right now. 

 

The dryad at your back presses soft kisses into your neck with lips as smooth as green wood, soft like loam. You whimper a little when something prickles at your skin, but when you look down, you see that it’s only another dryad’s hands petting your shin, its briar-like fingers just this side of uncomfortable. The new one looks at you curiously. Its eyes are warm too, a shade darker than the one behind you, and it holds a pit in its hand. 

 

It turns the pit over and over in its fingers, looking at you like you’re some kind of puzzle. It leans in. Slowly it moves closer and closer, and just when you think it’s going to press kisses into your shoulder, it leans over and nips at your first friend’s jaw. There’s a hush around the three of you as the other dryads quiet down. 

 

And then, noise: not unlike brush in a storm, there’s creaking and groaning, cracks of timber and shaking limbs. The dryads are kissing, their bark scraping and hands roaming. Their fingers dig into your skin as they nip at each other over your shoulder. As you watch, they become sticky with something-- not just their faces, but their fingers, too. Sap secretes out of their finger pads, sticking along your stomach and chest as their hands wander over you. Something smells like honey and clove, and when you lean into the action, you notice that something is dusting over the three of you.

 

You look up: around you, the group of dryads is leaning in. The little flowers and other growths you’d noticed before are in full bloom now, and as the breeze shifts, you see that clouds of pollen are thick in the air, yellow and rich cream in color. All eyes are on the three of you.

 

Tentatively at first, you reach out to grasp the wrist of the on of the dryads. It’s the first, the one that approached you. Its vines still wreath your shoulders, its sap sits on your skin. You draw its hand up to your mouth and kiss it, biting at the wood of its wrist. The dryad gasps and pulls you closer. Something squirms against your back, thick and wriggling. At your front, the second friend has started to pet down your stomach, sap trailing behind its fingers. Pollen sticks to you in yellow trails, powder-soft and thick in the air. It settles in your hair, still damp from the creek, and when you breath in-- and sneeze, to the delight of the dryads around you-- it coats you from the inside out. 

 

Fire burns in your lungs. Not an allergy-- not a rejection-- but a  _ need _ , something deep and hungry. It’s like the fruit all over again. But rather than consuming you...need to be consumed.

 

You bite into the wood of the dryad’s wrist again, moaning when it pressed into you. You can feel that growth behind you again, and a new one in front of you, too. The prickly fingers in front of you guide your hand to the join of its legs, and between them you find fine petals. Large and soft and spreading outward in a gigantic bloom, the flower of the dryad’s body is heavy with nectar. You run your hand through your hair, gathering some pollen, and then rub gently over the petals. The dryad pushes into your touch encouragingly. Its rutting up against your hand now, grasping your forearm with prickly fingers and guiding you to where it wants you to be.

 

The others gather even closer, now. They stand tall around you, their long limbs swaying in the breeze. They’re a flurry of movement and chatter. The noise rushes over your dizzy head, falls around your ears. One kneels down. Then another. The rest of your clothes are peeled away by a myriad of hands, and then you’re just one more shape amidst the group, skin yellow with pollen and sticky with sap. Each dryad holds a pit in its hands. 

 

They look at you with purpose, curiosity open on their faces. When you moan and push into their touches, they whisper to each other. One straddles your thigh. Another parts a thatch of moss to reveal a glistening whorl of greenery, and tilts your chin towards it. Yet another grips are writhing mass of tendrils in its hands, stroking gently as it tangles in its own fingers. One by one they descend on you, need clear on their faces. 

 

The stories come back to you: carried in seeds and in pots. Dancing under the sun and moon. Free to move. Patience. 

 

They’ve been  _ waiting _ . The need is clear in every desperate chirping giggle, in every happy rustle and undulation of their hips. The dryads descend on you, hands petting over you, and you are drunk on it. Your hips burn, your breath comes in sweet pants. Pollen and nectar are thick on your tongue. You lap at one dryad’s opening, then turn to another and press kisses into a tangle of curling green shoots. Your fingers dig into a soft hip, then glide away to yank another in by the arm. 

 

There’s a clinking around you. It’s dull, almost indistinguishable from the thud of wooded heels on the dirt, or knees and elbows jostling for room. When you pull your eyes away from the garden in front of you, you see that each dryad has set a fruit pit down in front of you: in your lap, by your feet, pressing them into your hands. Among the dozen or so around you, each and every dryad has handed you something. The attention doesn’t stop, but you take a moment away from feasting on nectar to wonder at what exactly they want you to do. 

 

The intent becomes clear when one dryad-- the original, the one that first revealed itself to you-- gently turns your face to look at it. There’s a flush to its cheeks not unlike a peony as it guides your hands between its legs. There green tendrils part like a curtain to reveal a tiny, glistening opening. Its sticky with sap and surrounded by tiny buds. Leaves line its inner thighs, layered over one another like plating green and soft. 

 

The dryad takes your hand-- pit gripped tight-- and presses it up against itself. Here, at last, you feel warmth. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced before, not exactly. It’s like digging your fingers in fresh soil, or the rush of warm water from a stream. It’s soft, gentle in a way that the rest of the dryad’s bark is not. You press a couple fingers in. It’s silky soft and sucking you in. The dryad’s face twists: disatisfaction. 

 

You make a questioning noise, try curling your fingers a little. Behind you, another dryad grows desperate, riding your other hand and trying to spur you into movement. What do you need to do?

 

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot one dryad spreading herself open. Between her legs she holds a pit. She’s rubbing it over herself, playing with the juices from the fruit and from her body-- and then passing it. Another dryad takes it, licks it, then passes it again. When it sees you looking, it passes it to you.

 

Or tries to. You’re still occupied with the first one. The first inkling of an idea arises in your mind. Turning your attention to the sweet grip around your fingers, you press in further, then withdraw. Your hand is covered in slick, and you can’t resist the urge to taste it. 

 

You laugh: rosemary or something else herbal and bitter. You grip the pit with your sticky hand then carefully bring it back between the legs of your friend. The dryad shudders in your grip, its vines tightening around your wrist as it draws you closer. The flowers blooming all over its body flutter open and closed, blooming again and again as its chest heaves in anticipation. 

 

The pit slides in effortlessly. You feel it glide past the petals, the ridges and wrinkles eased by soft moss and dew. You push and push until you can’t feel the slightest bump of the stone anymore, then withdraw with a wet noise. 

 

The dryad looks blissed out. Its eyes are closed, its plump lips parted in reverence. The flush in its face is darker now, its broad shoulders slumped in satisfaction. It pets its hands over you happily, sated at last. 

 

You turn your attention to the others. They’re waiting for you.

 

 

Epilogue: 

 

You leave the next day feeling-- and you laugh at the thought-- fresh as a daisy. In your pocket, a single weight presses against your thigh: a gnarled, wrinkled fruit pit, still wet with pulp and sap. The tiniest stirrings of life curl within it. You’ll nurture it. It’s family. 

**Author's Note:**

> I mainly write Overwatch, but you can follow my nsfw blog at hhgggx.tumblr.com. I post ficlets and monster stuff in addition to a ton of OW content. I'm planning to do more monster content in the future, so keep an eye out!


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